


Scandal

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Politics, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Member of Parliament Hermione Granger, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Beta Read, Politics, Possible Character Death, Prime Minister Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-03-05 01:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: His eyes were fixated on her, lips turned into a frown as if trying to will Hermione to answer truthfully to his question. What he didn’t know was that she planned to avoid the question altogether. To lie outright because telling him thatTom bloody Riddlewas feeling her up beneath the table in the middle of a political dinner was unacceptable.





	1. Snake's Pit

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know much about British politics. I tried my best with the limited time I had to write concerning this. This is a one-shot.
> 
> Leave comments or kudos if you enjoyed.

“Oh, that’s just absurd—”

She gasped, unable to contain the sound when a hand smoothed over the top of her thigh. It was hot, burning through the thin layer of her dress. The polished nails circled around the material, as if following some unseen pattern in on the fabric that Hermione had not noticed when she’d picked it out of her closet.

She glared at the owner of that hand, unable to mask her ire when he didn’t have the decency to look at her. His hand was tracing over her thigh, but his face looked empty of any guilt. No one would suspect that Tom Riddle had his hand on her leg, that underneath the table he was making her stomach quiver with nerves.

“Are you alright Hermione? You look a bit flushed,” a familiar voice said from across the table, and Hermione reluctantly turned her attention away from Tom to fix her gaze on the concerned gaze of her colleague, Blaise Zabini.

His eyes were fixated on her, lips turned into a frown as if trying to will Hermione to answer truthfully to his question. What he didn’t know was that she planned to avoid the question altogether. To lie outright because telling him that  _Tom bloody Riddle_  was feeling her up beneath the table in the middle of a political dinner was unacceptable.

There were politicians milling about. Women and men dressed to the nines. Their finery and their rich perfumes offensive to both her nose and eyes. It was a pissing contest of the worst variety, and to admit to something as scandalous as that. To call the  _future prime minister_  out for coping a feel of the newest MP was political suicide.

She was still young. She was new blood in a sea of political figures that were born into this. They understood the game better than anyone, thrived off the intrigue and scandals that erupted when things did not go in the direction that it should.

This was a snake den. Recklessness and honesty would get her nowhere here, especially when under the careful thumb of Tom Riddle himself. Or hand, considering his fingers were currently making her spine quiver in a way that it hadn’t for a long time now.

Her divorce had not left her with any desire to chase after her own pleasure. Not that politics left her with much room to do anything else, either. The double-standard, the inherent unfairness of being a woman in the political realm still left much to be desired.

It took everything within her not to drop her hand onto his and tug the offending appendage off.

“I’m fine, really. It’s a bit overwhelming, you see. To be sitting beside  _Tom Riddle_  of all people. I would imagine anyone would be a bit..out of sorts with that experience.”

The lie came smoothly, a surprising fact considering Riddle had not stopped in his light touches, still running long fingers against her leg as if memorizing the shape of her thigh.

If Blaise sensed any insincerity in her tone, he didn’t comment. He continued the conversation as if Hermione had not gasped earlier.

“I would imagine so. Is this not your first time at the Gala since being appointed?” Zabini asked, and Hermione bit on the inside of her cheek when Riddle chose in that instance to brush aside the fabric, slipping through the slit that started just at her knee, and caressed her bare leg.

Hermione wished she’d worn stockings that evening. If Riddle’s touch had been distracting before, than now, it was nearly impossible to focus on Zabini.

The hand crept higher on her leg, past her knee and over the top of her thigh, and Hermione wondered why Riddle was doing this. She didn’t even  _know_ him. Not really. She’d exchanged a brief conversation with the man and no more than that. Nothing at the time had even hinted at this sort of relationship.

Hermione’s heart raced, but she did not dare turn her attention to Riddle even when everything within her wanted to leap away. It was too much.

It had been  _too_ long.

“Y-yes, it is. I’ve been to these before, but now that I am a  _member of parliament_ , well, it certainly changes things,” Hermione said, a brittle smile on her lips. She hoped that Riddle caught the meaning of her words, noticed that  _yes_ , she wasn’t just anyone. She was a member of parliament, and although she was new, Riddle had to behave himself around her.

Riddle did not cease his touching, but the small laugh that escaped his lips was evidence enough that he caught on to her meaning, even if Zabini seemed oblivious.

Mercifully, Zabini turned his attention to Riddle and Hermione had a moment to collect herself before she slipped her hand beneath the table and gripped Riddle’s hand tightly within hers.

Zabini chuckled, lips twisted into a sly smile. “Indeed. To think we’d have the illustrious Hermione Granger in our house. My, it is quite a scandal, indeed. Your political party is already up in arms, future Minister Riddle.”

She tried to pry it off, but Riddle’s hand remained stubbornly in place. She’d have to make a show of ripping it off, apply more force than she was able in a public setting, to get it off. It would draw more attention than she wanted, and perhaps, that was Riddle’s intentions from the start.

She wasn’t necessarily a supporter of his politics. She had her own qualms with his conservative stance, so she could attribute this whole affair perhaps to a need to humiliate her. Perhaps, ruin her reputation to the governing body and shun her. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if that was his intention.

Hermione wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She had something else in mind, a plan that she never would have accepted before, but desperate moments called for desperate action.

“They are, but I am certain we could make the best out of this. Ms. Granger will certainly be a wonderful addition. Her stance is adverse to many of mine, but I am certain we could come to an understanding.”

Hermione removed her hand from Riddle’s fingers, but rather than move them back to the table, to finger her champagne flute as she had earlier, before Riddle had decided to harass her, she planted it on Riddle’s thigh instead.

A small smile curved on her lip when his muscles bunched beneath her palm, almost against his will. She could tell that he was surprised, that he hadn’t expected her to do something as bold as this in the middle of the party where anyone, and she did mean  _anyone_ could see them doing this.

It was fortunate, indeed, that they had a wall behind them and not the entirety of the hall.

“Yes, I do hope so, Minister Riddle. I’d much rather we all got along  _well_ ,” Hermione said sweetly, wincing slightly when Riddle’s grip on her thigh tightened to the point of pain.

She’d have bruises the next day, but the knowledge that she’d one-upped him in this respect was  _worth_ it.

“Mr. Zabini!” Someone called, and Hermione turned her attention to the source of the disturbance.

Irritation curled within her belly at the sight of the last person she wished to see at the Gala. Not even the hand on her thigh could be as odious as the presence coming their way.

Draco Malfoy sauntered over to their end of the table, a wicked grin on his lips as he nodded respectfully to both Zabini and Riddle, completely ignoring Hermione’s presence in the same motion.

“I wasn’t aware that you would be in attendance. You rarely come to these things, or stay for very long,” Draco said, attention engrossed entirely on Zabini.

There was a pause, one that weighed heavily on her shoulders, before Zabini opened his mouth. Hermione’s stomach dropped when his gaze flickered in her direction, and she knew that Zabini would draw the blond’s unfortunate attention on her.

It was the last thing she needed, especially when Riddle’s grip loosened before slipping higher on her leg, fingertips now dreadfully close to her knickers. It took everything within her not to kick, instead deciding right then to trace the seam of Riddle’s trousers, edging close to where she assumed his cock rested.

Riddle’s leg flexed beneath her palm, but there was no shudder. The man did not suck in a sharp breath, did not make a single sound. It was as if Hermione had not touched him at all.

_Was the man made of stone?_

“I was just welcoming our newest member to the house. Have you met?”

Hermione wanted to groan when Malfoy’s silvery gaze flickered to her, his disdain obvious in the furrow of his brow and the way his lip curled. It looked as if he’d smelled something foul, and Hermione could not help smiling sharply at him in response.

She didn’t give him a chance to answer Zabini’s question.

“Yes, we have. We attended the same university.”

Hermione did not say more, and Riddle seized that moment to hike her dress higher and tease at the seam of her knickers.

She flickered her gaze to his momentarily, eyes narrowed in irritation, and slid further down his thigh to trail her palm between his thighs.

The only indication that he’d felt that, the sudden flaring of his nostrils and the way his lips twitched slightly. There was amusement in his gaze and something else; an emotion she did not want to focus on, especially when Malfoy and Zabini were focused entirely on her.

“He is quite the intelligent man. Graduated second of his class, just after me.”

Malfoy’s lip curled in disgust, and Hermione would have laughed if not for Riddle choosing that moment to slide a single finger into her knickers, caressing just where her thigh met the juncture between her legs.

A shaky breath escaped her lips instead, and Hermione gripped Riddle’s cock, noticing only then that he was hard in his slacks.

She wished in that moment that she could touch him directly. To do more than just tease him from the outside of his pants. His belt made that impossible. The entire situation was clearly to her disadvantage.

“Not only politically affluent, but intelligent as well,” Riddle said then, cutting through the haze of hostility that settled around them.

Malfoy forced his attention away from Hermione, and smiled politely at Riddle, an undercurrent of something in his gaze that Hermione did not understand.

It looked like…fear? But why this was so, why Malfoy was afraid of the head of his party was strange to her. Everyone  _loved_ Riddle, even when his policies were not necessarily the best. And this was  _Malfoy_ , a conservative that had rallied for the conservative win.

It was only through Malfoy’s efforts that Riddle had made it where he was today. Aside from Riddle’s, otherwise, classically handsome face and charisma.

She herself never would have guessed how conniving Riddle was had he not shoved his hand under her dress.

But sure, humiliation was a common theme in politics. Everyone understood that. But  _fear_. No one outright feared someone, not unless they were involved in some shady business. Not unless there was a reason.

Suspicion rose within her, but she didn’t say a word. She watched Malfoy carefully, feeling Riddle’s prick harden further between her fingers just as his own hand teased at her inner thigh, the promise of  _more_ like a phantom.

“Why have you not told me about Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy, why am I only now just learning that you are both acquainted?” Riddle asked, and Hermione ripped her gaze away from Malfoy to watch Zabini, the sound of his chair screeching on the floor drawing her attention.

Zabini slowly rose from his seat, eyes focused on his phone. “My apologies, it seems that I must step out.”

Zabini did not wait to be dismissed. He left without turning back, so engrossed by whatever was on his phone that it would be a miracle, indeed, if the man managed to make it out of the Gala without bumping into anyone.

There was an awkward pause before Draco spoke again, as if Zabini had not just stepped out.

“I-er, well, I didn’t expect that she’d make it so far. She’s not one of  _us_ , you know.”

Hermione bristled.  _How dare he?_

“Whether she is one of us is irrelevant, Mr. Malfoy. She has shown that she is quite capable. You attended Oxford, you said?” Riddle interrupted, and Hermione was startled out of her rage by the curious note in Riddle’s voice, unsettled by the fact that the question was now directed at her.

_Was he defending me?_

Malfoy made a choking sound, but Hermione, interest piqued, did not spare the blond a glance. She turned her attention entirely on Riddle, unable to do much else now that he’d asked her a direct question.

His dark eyes were fixed on her, lips curved into a welcoming smile that made her want to simultaneously smack him and huff with embarrassment. His hand was still on her thigh, but it had stopped stroking her thigh for a moment.

As if he were waiting for her to answer.

She cleared her throat, mouth suddenly dry, when his eyes flickered low, just where her hand was on his thigh.

“Yes, I was top of my class.”

Riddle tilted his head to one side, a gesture that looked more suited for an animal than a man, before shifting his attention to Malfoy. There was something sly about the way his lips curled, eyes glittering with something mischievous.

Hermione only watched as Malfoy blanched, eyes widening momentarily before draining completely of expression. It had happened so fast that if Hermione had not been watching them both as closely as she was, she might have missed it.

It was fortunate that Riddle had not kept stroking her, that he had given her a moment to keep her head firmly on her shoulders to catch that break in Malfoy’s mask.

_Odd._

“We could use someone with your credentials in the house. Don’t you agree, Mr. Malfoy?”

Hermione’s lips pursed, unsure of what this was all about. There was an undercurrent of something in Riddle’s tone, and guessing from Malfoy’s almost frazzled expression, it had to be something serious.

Her eyes narrowed, and she was just about to ask when all thought of speaking abruptly ended. Riddle’s hand slipped into her knickers, teasing at her slit in that same motion.

Her shoulders tensed and her spine nearly bowed from the contact. Heat like she’d never encountered before electrified her, jumbled her thoughts. Her insides clenched, and she squeezed Riddle so tightly in her palm that it was a miracle that she hadn’t crushed him from the force of her grip.

She hadn’t expected it. Hermione didn’t actually think he’d  _do_ it. Something in the back of her head had held onto the hope that he wouldn’t go that far, that he wouldn’t do that with fucking  _Draco Malfoy_  just inches away from them.

But she had been wrong, and now she was stuck. He had started this, but she would see this through. She would finish it, for both her pride and dignity.

“Gentlemen, you do realize I am right here?” Hermione said through clenched teeth, heat winding inside her when Riddle caressed the outer lips of her cunt. His touch was gentle, lighter than a feather. It shouldn’t have affected her as much as it did, but there was no stopping the arousal that awoke inside her.

Her insides clenched, and she found herself growing wet when Riddle shifted beside her, shoulder now brushing her bare shoulder.

No one would make anything of that gesture, not even Malfoy himself since these tables were awfully small. Packed tightly with seats that couldn’t possibly fit everyone on it.

Still, it was risky.

“Of course not, Ms. Granger, I have not forgotten you are here. It only seemed like Mr. Malfoy needed a reminder of the importance of qualifications rather than  _lineage_.”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath when a thumb slipped between her lips, the digit collecting the evidence of just how aroused she was. She was hyper aware of it, the way her moisture trickled down her parted legs, how his thumb felt stroking her lips.

She wanted to curse, she wanted to seem as unaffected as Riddle was, but the man was so  _controlled_.

No one would think that Riddle was being stroked through his pants, that her hand was playing with his cock, teasing the head, thumb tracing over the underside, following where she imagined a thick vein lied. It was a place she learned could evoke pleasure in a man; a technique her ex-husband had favored in their lovemaking.

Ron had liked it,  _loved_ it, in fact. Whether Riddle enjoyed that technique, well, was a total mystery to her. He was a bloody robot. He looked perfectly at home there, as if he were enjoying the cool air inside the hall rather than being fondled beneath the table.

His cheeks were pale. There was no evidence that he was even aroused save for the hardness beneath her fingers and the wet spot bleeding through the fabric. His lips were set into a beatific smile, and his eyes were dark enough that she could not tell whether he was into this or not.

She couldn’t distinguish his pupils from the dark brown, not unless she was close enough to breathe in his air, and she’d rather not do something like that. The thought of getting closer than needed to Riddle, to being  _alone_ with him made her stomach clench in a way that wasn’t entirely from unease.

“Y-you’re right, of course, Prime Minister.”

Draco looked as if he might be ill. His cheeks were so pale that Hermione, had she not been engrossed in the feeling of Riddle’s fingers in her cunt, she might have asked if he was alright.

“I’m glad you understand. Why don’t you bring Ms. Granger a drink? Her glass looks awfully empty.”

Hermione jumped when that thumb slipped further inside, stopping just short of her clit. He didn’t move it, but just the threat that it was there was enough to make sweat bead low on her back.

It took her a second to realize what Riddle said, what the implications meant. Horror and something else she refused to acknowledge swelled inside her.

 _No_. She refused to be alone with him.

“N-no, really. It’s alright. I’m not much for drinks.”

Her words went unheard.

Malfoy did not wait for her to finish her phrase, didn’t seem to notice she had said anything at all, before he said something deferential to Riddle, turned on his heel and fled the scene. As if he couldn’t bear to be in their presence any longer.

Dread lodged itself in her throat, more aware than ever of the eyes staring intently at her face.

She couldn’t blame Malfoy for fleeing. If she didn’t have Riddle’s hand between her thighs, finger hovering over her clit, she might have run herself. Perhaps, had excused herself in a similar fashion and pretended that nothing had happened at all.

It wouldn’t go unnoticed, of course, but her losing this battle seemed less daunting now than it had earlier.

If only her pride hadn’t gotten her in this bloody mess.

Hermione stiffened when Riddle leaned in closer, lips stopping just centimeters from her ear, his warm breath fanning across her neck.

“Enjoying yourself this evening,  _Hermione_?”

That thumb inched subtly closer to her clit, and Hermione bit so hard into her cheek to stop herself from gasping, hand squeezing Riddle’s cock in response.

“You’re a bloody bastard, Riddle,” Hermione retorted, ignoring the breathy laugh Riddle huffed against her neck. It made her spine tingle pleasantly, the husky note of it not as terrible as she had imagined it would sound.

_Get a grip, Hermione._

“That’s not appropriate language for an honourable member of the House of Commons, sweetheart.”

The hypocrisy of the phrase was not lost on her. Hermione bristled and twisted around to ask him exactly what  _was_ appropriate of a member of the government, if he thought it permissible to shove his hands down a stranger’s knickers, but she didn’t have a chance to.

Because, just as she parted her lips, Riddle’s thumb pressed roughly against her clit and began to circle the nub, his motions slow and methodical, as if he were trying to memorize the shape of her body through that single point of contact alone.

Hermione choked on her spit, and she forced a hand over her mouth to stop herself from moaning aloud, caught entirely off-guard. She stroked him, in spite of this. Her grip on his cock did not fall away nor did her touches peeter off, but it was through her force of will alone that she managed that.

She was merciless, arousal and shame evoking something that she believed had died along with her marriage. It was carnal, animalistic in its hunger to see this man  _bend_ beneath her hands.

Nothing would please the beast inside her more than to see Riddle crumble beneath her hands, to see him just as affected, just as aroused as she, but the man was cool. Collected.

There was so much restraint in that single circling motion over her clit that she might have feared Riddle was inhuman. But he wasn’t. He was only a man, even if he seemed unaffected. In spite of his restraint, she hadn’t missed the way his breaths had grown heavier, how it had slightly hitched before evening out seconds after.

He was not entirely unaffected, but it was obvious just who out of the two was most affected by this. And how she wished it wasn’t her; that  _he_ did not have the upper hand.

“S-shut up, you have no right to tell me what is appropriate when you're—”

Hermione could not finish her sentence, a choked sound escaping her lips instead of the rest of the insult she had crafted because Riddle chose that second to force a finger inside her, the ease with which it entered both mortifying and arousing.

“When I am what? You had all the opportunity to stop me. You could have simply left or moved to another seat. I wasn’t forcing you to stay,” Riddle purred into her ear, but Hermione could only focus on the sea of faces around her.

Men and women were chattering with one another. Drinks in hand and eyes dancing across the ballroom as nothing was amiss. She was terrified of being seen, at exposing herself, but this fear only made her insides tighter. She clenched around that finger, and it was only the teeth biting on the inside of her cheek that kept her from mewling aloud.

It didn’t matter that no one save for Riddle would hear it. That the hall was bustling with conversation and music. To her, all it would take was one lingering look from someone in the crowd and someone would uncover what they were doing. Her face was hot and sweaty, eyes glistening with tears that wanted to fall but couldn’t.

She was trembling beneath his touch, but Hermione did not buckle under the pressure. She glared at him, released her cheek from between her teeth and hissed angrily at him.

“You know very well you didn’t leave me with a choice, Riddle. This is all a bloody  _game_ to you. You  _knew_ I wouldn’t buckle under the pressure, that I wouldn’t let you humiliate me in front of your sycophants.”

A spasm racked through her when Riddle forced a second finger inside and curled them inside her, pressing against her g-spot with a precision not even Ron was capable of mimicking. Not without her help, at least.

Riddle knew what he was doing, and it was only the risk of being caught that kept her from undoing the man’s pants right there and shoving her hands down his trousers.

“You wanted me to break, to give you the satisfaction of running with my tail tucked between my legs,” Hermione said through shallow breaths, unable to stop the tremors running up her spine each time he fucked her on his fingers.

He pulled and pushed, twisted and curled, thumb merciless as it stroked her clit. She felt a pressure building low in her belly, the tell-tale sign that her orgasm was creeping steadily closer.

She was terrified and thrilled at the prospect of climaxing right there. She wasn’t the most quiet, the most composed. She and Ron had had multitude of complaints back when they lived in a flat about the noise. It would not go unnoticed if she did. A moan or two could be drowned out by the noise of the people milling about, but a  _scream_?

That would be a problem.

“I’m not afraid of you, Riddle. I don’t care who you know and what you do. Whatever sordid business you’re conducting with Malfoy is none of my concern—”

The pressure building inside her, the heat and the pleasure, all of it came to a halt. It was so sudden that she didn’t have time to protest from the loss of the delicious friction or kick herself for feeling disappointed.

Riddle had pulled his fingers from between her thighs, and then, as if recalling just where his fingers had been, smeared her fluids over her thighs.

“Clever.”

Then, Riddle was hauling her up by the shoulder. She didn’t have time to catch her balance, nearly tripping on the dress and heels when he grabbed her wrist and led her through a throng of people toward a darkened hallway just at the far end of the ballroom.

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked between her breaths, heart racing when Riddle did not answer. He was moving so fast that it was a miracle she hadn’t fallen on her arse. His pace was brusque, long legs eating up more space than her shorter legs ever could.

It wasn’t until they were in the dark hallway that Riddle turned to her, hand slipping around her waist to haul her away from the brightly lit ballroom and into the first room he saw.

“Riddle, what do you think you’re  _doing_? Why did you take me here?” She hissed, catching her breath to grab the hand wound tightly around her waist to yank it off. But she might as well have tried to move stone for all that did. Riddle’s grip was unyielding, and Hermione, incensed now, swatted at his chest to get him to bloody let go.

She wasn’t some doll he could manhandle. This was the bloody  _21st century_.

“Tell me, Hermione. Just how much do you know?” Riddle said suddenly, ignoring all of her questions. She couldn’t see him though the darkness, the room shrouded entirely in shadows. There was no way for her to discern what sort of mood they’d fallen into, his voice her only basis for comparison.

Earlier, Riddle’s tone had been playful. There was that hint of danger there, always lurking from behind his thin smile, but now. There was an edge on his voice, a something that made her stomach flip in an entirely unpleasant way.

Something had changed and Hermione had no idea  _why_.

“Know what exactly?” Hermione hedged, wincing when his grip tightened and his other hand—the one that wasn’t digging into her waist—trailed over her spine softly, fingertips teasing each bump all the way up to the nape of her neck to settle over the back of her head, hand hovering over the the bun she’d managed to wrangle her hair into.

It lingered there for a moment before he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, the warning inherent in the gesture difficult to miss.

“My  _sordid_ business with Malfoy. Just what do you think you know? I’m curious,” Riddle’s tone sounded anything but curious. There was an undercurrent of danger that made adrenaline rush through her veins.

She didn’t know anything. She’d only said the first thing she’d thought of, drew the proper connections with the hints Malfoy’s shady behavior and Riddle’s conduct had hinted at. It wasn’t difficult to piece it all together. Malfoy was a  _horrid_ liar, or perhaps, she simply knew him enough to know just when he was trying to hide something.

“I don’t know anything,” Hermione denied immediately, but something about the way Riddle’s grip tightened convinced her that he hadn’t believed her. She wished more than ever that she could at least read his expression, that she could see through the dark and ascertain just how to tread this minefield.

Riddle from the ballroom was a different man from the one in this dark room. They were like two different persons, and Hermione didn’t know what to make of that. Her fear was so heady that she could almost choke on it, recalling in that second that no one had been paying them any mind. Everyone had been engrossed with their chatter, drunk with champagne and whisky.

They were alone. No one knew where they were. And even if they had been seen, they wouldn’t be missed at least until the festivities ended. It didn’t help that the Gala was notorious for dragging on for hours—ending only when everyone had passed out in one of the guestrooms of the hotel or took their cab back home.

“You’re not a very good liar, Hermione. Your heart betrays you,” Riddle whispered softly and Hermione’s stomach dropped when his fingers twitched against her neck. He was reading her pulse, somehow divining her honesty through the tips of his fingers.

“I don’t appreciate your lack of candor, if we are going to work together, you’re going to need to be honest with me.” Riddle leaned in to whisper into her ear, and Hermione shivered, his breath fanning across the nape of her neck.

She opened and closed her mouth several times before settling for the best answer she could think of in that situation.

“I honestly don’t know. Malfoy just looked so terrified of you.” Hermione squirmed within his arms, but Riddle refused to release her.

She fought against him for what felt like an eternity before she collapsed against him, exhausted. Her breaths were harsh, coming in sharp wheezes.

Then, they were moving once again, his body forcing her back until the backs of her knees hit something soft. It felt like the edge of a bed, but she couldn’t be sure when the room was as obscure as it was.

“Are you afraid of me, Hermione?” Riddle said and before Hermione could answer, Riddle pushed released her and pushed her over the edge. She yelped, falling back into the bed.

Riddle did not follow after her. He remained where he was, his shadow the only thing she could note in the room.

It took her longer than was permissible to reign in her nerves, to swallow her unease to answer his question. Everything about this situation was terrifying.

She could handle Riddle the politician, but she wasn’t sure she was prepared to handle the man looming over her now.

Clenching her hands around the sheets beneath her, Hermione hoisted herself up to her elbows before answering.

“With how you’re behaving, the question is who  _wouldn’t_ be afraid of you?” Hermione said, watching the man’s shoulders quiver for a moment before a low laugh rumbled from his chest. The sound was all wrong, too high and forced for it to be natural.

It was terrifying, unlike the smooth baritone from earlier.

“Well put,” Riddle said before turning on his heel, Hermione’s eyes following after his shadow as he crossed the room and stopped just inches from the door.

He hovered near it, unmoving. Lingered in front of the door; Hermione unable to do nothing more than stare. She did not move. Could scarcely breathe, both afraid and sickly curious to learn just what he would do.

Would he come back? Finish what they had both started? Would he leave and let her stay with only the terrifying moment between them in her thoughts?

Her mind was so engrossed with worry that she didn’t notice the door click open until the room was flooded with light from the hallway. She hissed, closing her eyes immediately to ease the sting.

It was several seconds before she could open her eyes again, black spots dancing along the corners of her eyes when she caught Riddle’s back, the black blazer perfectly pressed. Nothing was amiss. He looked the perfect gentlemen from the back.

A powerful man that would soon take the oath and lead Britain.

His hand was wrapped around the doorknob, and Hermione only watched as he slowly turned his head to regard her, a single curl falling away from his coiffed hair to look at her.

Hermione’s heart froze. Her body locked, unable to do nothing else but lay sprawled on the bed with horror.

Riddle’s eyes were trained on hers, but they were void of all emotion. There was no amusement. There was no joy or satisfaction at seeing her unsettled at she was. It was  _empty_. These were the eyes of a dead man, and it was single handedly the most terrifying thing she had ever seen.

Not even the threat he’d whispered into her ear, the promise of pain should she lie, was as terrifying as this.

And that smile. It was small, just a subtle curve of his red lips. But it was all wrong. All of it was  _wrong_.

“I look forward to working with you,  _Hermione_. Have a good night, and do try to stay out of trouble. London can be quite dangerous in the evening,” Riddle said, tone oddly light before stepping out of the room and shutting the door behind him, drowning her once again in darkness.

Hermione did not move for a long time. Unable to do much else than lay on her back, her thoughts screaming, shrieking bloody murder because  _this_ , whatever  _this_  was, was far from over.


	2. Push & Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long and terrible wait, here you all are. The ending of this harrowing tale. 
> 
> Enjoy! I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> This wasn't beta-read, so expect some grammar wonkiness.

Hermione frowned, deep in thought before she shifted her weight, aware that she should be paying closer attention to the inane chatter in the ballroom. That was difficult, however, when the very source of her ire was standing at the podium and giving his speech, mask in place.

She hadn’t found the gall to face him yet since the incident at the dinner. She’d done her best to avoid him, up until his actual inauguration.

It was inevitable that she had to face him at some point, but  _ toss  _ it, that inevitable meeting would be on her own terms. But for that, she mused, she needed time to prepare, to  _ plan  _ accordingly. He’d caught her off guard before, but she refused to be bested a second time.

Prime Minister Riddle had thrown a dent in all of her carefully laid plans, had become a  _ problem _ . He was her opposition in every way, and though she never anticipated coming within his orbit in the manner that she had, she would be ready.

In revealing himself, he’d given her something to work with by extension. She knew that he’d oppose her, that he’d do everything within his power to discredit her before her colleagues, just to see her  _ squirm _ .

Hermione had seen the cruelty, had tasted the malice and the cold calculation beneath his gaze. He was not a good man, that much was clear. And that was how she would strike.

The Prime Minister liked games, so why not simply oblige him? Why not catch him in his own web of lies, in his own capricious desire to see her fall?

A smile twisted on her face, and almost as if summoned by the mere force of her thoughts, Prime Minister took that moment to glance in her direction as he spoke. 

Their eyes met, and a rush of something thrilling trailed up her spine at the way his lip curled at the corner of his mouth. His mask was still perfectly in place before the crowd of onlookers in the room, even when his eyes trailed inappropriately from her face to her bare shoulders and back up that path.

Then, after what felt like an  _ eternity  _ but could only have been a second, Riddle  finished taking his fill of her and  his gaze, to her relief, shifted away from her, drawn in by something indiscernible from within the crowd.

It was like a physical weight had been lifted from her shoulders, her heart beating wildly in her chest as if she’d broken into a run rather than shared a look with the most dangerous man in office. 

It took her a disgustingly long time to settle the influx of emotion in her gut, but she managed with enough time to spare, to watch him lie to the people before her. 

It was that single interaction that sealed his fate, that gave her the courage to do what was required. If she hadn’t been convinced before, then she was certain now. She refused to be cowed, to break under the pressure.

_ Yes,  _ Hermione decided, tuning out the man’s silky lies _ , I’ll play your game. _

And she’d play to win.

* * *

When the inaugural speech had culminated, it was easy for her to get lost in the sea of bodies. They swarmed the podium, converging into one giant mass as they stormed toward Prime Minister Riddle. 

It was a comical and distressing display. The way their hearts shone with hunger, mouths open with silver-tongued promises and  _ congratulations Prime Minister, we expect to see wonderful things  _ in the ambiguous shape of praise and threat. They drank him in as if he were fine wine and they wine connoisseurs—unable to resist his allure even if he was laced with arsenic. 

Hermione followed the crowd until the entrance-way became visible, quickly making her escape. She needed a moment to think—a place of respite to consider her best course of action. It would be foolish to ignore him and the danger he posed.

She mulled over her options.

She could seduce him. Return his sexual advances in the hopes that she might uncover the secrets he’d hinted to when they’d been tucked away in that bedroom many nights ago. It would only be just. 

_ But how exactly would I manage to do that?  _ Hermione thought, nearly colliding with the bodies of a couple in the crowd.  _ How would I manage to seduce someone as experienced as the Prime Minister when the only man I’d ever slept with was Ron? _

She had no experience with such a thing, having married Ron after dating him through most of her academic career at Oxford. 

Aside from the single kiss she’d shared with Viktor Krum the year before Ron had confessed. Her technique had been shaped to Ron’s tastes, and although she was confident in her sexual prowess, she doubted she could persuade Riddle to divulge his secrets.

Riddle was  _ good,  _ and she had to concede this. To push forward on this endeavor for the sake of her pride would only be her undoing. She had to accept where she was outmatched.

_ So how else? _

Hermione stepped out into a hallway, skirting away from servers that came along to ask to refill her wine glass or provide her with finger foods as they waited for dinner. She’d declined each offer, her wine glass ferreted away by a mousy girl.

A gleam of light made her stop, its source emanating from further down the hall. It was in the opposite direction of where they’d be seated for dinner and beyond the ballroom where Prime Minister Riddle was holding court.

She set off in that direction, looking over her shoulder to ensure that no one would be following. Normally, she didn’t stick her nose in strange places. Avoiding dangerous interactions in favor of assessing the risk to herself before she leaped into the fire.

Not this time. Hermione, rather, took off until the clicks of her heels disappeared, cushioned by the soft carpet that lined this part of the building.

The light grew stronger with each step, and Hermione didn’t stop, even when she was running now. Unable to curb the sudden swell of excitement in her chest when the source of light, upon rounding a corner, revealed itself to be a  _ balcony _ .

It was bathed in color, secluded from the rest of the world. The ideal spot for her to think when a library was inaccessible. She doubted this hotel, though posh and wealthy, provided one. 

She flew towards the doors and pushed them open with a careful grip on the knobs. It parted easily under her touch, a radiant sky blossoming beneath her gaze. Her breath caught, the rich blue of the horizon was lit with brilliant stars. They were so close that she might even be able to touch them.

Back in the city, the sky always looked so far away. Out of reach, just as many of the hearts of the elite watching from atop their expensive flats and homes. But here, she was among the stars. She, a common-born, was now at the top of the world. A bustling garden below, active with the festivities and the twinkling stars above. 

A slow breath left her, her feet moving without her accord. They carried her toward the edge of the balcony—the stone railing rough beneath her fingers when her hands smoothed over the top of it. She didn’t take her eyes from the sky nor the moon’s waxing shape as she did, the sounds of people laughing on the ground floor, lost to its glory.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Hermione froze, the blissful moment gone as quickly as it had come. She knew who it was. She didn’t need to turn and see for herself that it was the Prime Minister. After listening to him speak to the crowd for the past few hours—of dreaming of his mouth pressed against her ear as he  _ crushed  _ her throat between his fingers—she couldn’t mistake it.

Sucking in a deep breath, her fingers clenching on the stone rail, Hermione turned.

How he had managed to step away from the crowd—to disappear without an uproar, was a mystery in and of itself. She was sure that she had been discrete in her departure, certain that no one had been paying attention to her when her black dress had blended in with the shadows. It was for that reason alone that she had chosen it—to remain unseen.

“It’s enchanting.” Hermione forced herself to say, swallowing hard when Prime Minister Riddle stepped further into the balcony. The doors closed behind him with an audible click, curtains she hadn’t noticed previously falling over the glass to block them from view.

This wasn’t what she’d intended when she’d gone outside. She had wanted a moment to think, a moment to ponder on just what game she intended to play with the Prime Minister before crushing him beneath her shoe. 

She had already ruled out seduction. It was dreadful business. There was nothing wrong with powerful women that wielded such a tool for their survival in this political cesspool, but it  _ wasn’t  _ a particular gift she possessed. Her tongue was too sharp, her eyes too obvious with disdain. She was not like many of the women she admired in the House of Commons. Her strength was in knowledge, in planning, not in dancing this dangerous dance with both her reputation and life at stake.

But there was no time to plan. She needed to act, and she needed to act  _ now _ .

“Did you enjoy my speech?” Riddle asked once he stopped in front of her, a wine glass in each of his hands. Hermione didn’t know how she hadn’t noticed it before. 

Then again, she had been unable to look away from his face. He was imposing, his eyes a black void that swallowed everything in its maw. Her attention was no different. 

Riddle offered her the glass, and Hermione nearly rejected the drink, before he stepped closer. His hand pushed the glass to her, a smile on his lips that hearkened to the night he’d held her in the darkness, his grip hard enough to purple her skin.

_ Like the dreams of his fingers clasped around your neck, your eyes rolling to the back of your head before— _

“I’m afraid I didn’t hear a word of it.” Hermione replied, taking the glass beneath shaking fingers. Her chest was tight, her nerves shot. The memory of his silent threat in the darkness echoed in the back of her head, the taste of her own fear and his deception bitter like the espresso she shot back every morning. “I’m certain it was a wonderful combination of words. You excel at those.”

A laugh tumbled from his lips, his eyes dancing with mirth and something dangerous she didn’t want to recognize. At least, not yet, not when she was still pinned beneath his gaze like a writhing insect. 

“Still upset over our misunderstanding, then?” He asked, and Hermione scoffed, swirling the rich red in her glass. She didn’t dare take a sip or take her eyes from this man. There was a reason he’d sought her out from among the crowd—followed her into an isolated balcony on the other side of the hotel and blocked them from view.

She was only waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Quite.” A thin smile stretched over her lips, hoping that her anger superseded the fear twisting her insides into knots. She refused to give that away. Her composure had broken once, but no more. “It isn’t often that a man sexually assaults me in the middle of a political dinner.”

Hermione raised her glass toward him, eyeing him from over the rim. 

Riddle tilted his head, a tongue peeking from between his lips to lap at his bottom lip. Then, he was raising his glass too and pressing it against hers. The soft clink of glass hitting glass rang in the silence.

Her heart was racing a mile a minute, her stomach clenching and unclenching with her need to flee, but Hermione did not flinch. Everything was screaming for her to bolt like frightened doe, and she nearly did when he leaned in, their glasses still touching.

“Neither is pulling open my trousers and palming me with my colleagues sitting across the table.” Riddle said, and Hermione wanted to curse. He was twisting her actions, making her out to be an accessory to his own lascivious conduct. He was the one that had initiated it all; she had only tried to  _ finish  _ it.

“You and I both know that my hand would never have made its way into your trousers had you kept yours away from my thighs.” 

Riddle’s lips stretched into a grin, his teeth white and sharp looking from her vantage point. Idly, she wondered just how lethal a bite would be. If he would cut skin—slice and chew her up as a wolf devoured its quarry with only the slow grind of his molars.

The thought made her stomach turn.

“Two wrongs don’t make a right, Hermione.” 

A shudder crawled up her spine, unease blooming in her belly at the whisper of her name. 

“Neither does threatening a fellow associate.” Hermione retorted, pressing back into the railing when he stepped closer, his knuckles grazing hers despite her tight grip on the stem of the glass.

“Associate?” Riddle tilted his head, and Hermione’s stomach heaved when he pressed into her, caging her into the balcony railing without the need of a physical altercation. His taller frame was all that was required to subdue her, the threat of those hands enough to still her breath even when she knew she should run for her life. “Is that what you think you are? How presumptuous.”

Her fingers were bone white with how tightly she was clutching onto the glass, her breaths coming quickly when he bent low to invade more of her space.

“Riddle, are you sure you wish to do this here?” Hermione breathed, throat dry with toxic anticipation. “We’re not alone. We have a crowd just below us and only one door away from this balcony. If you hurt me—”

“Hurt you?” Riddle interrupted, laughter in his eyes as he watched her from beneath his lashes. “You think I am going to hurt you, Hermione?” 

Lifting her chin in what she hoped made her look braver than she felt, Hermione twirled the liquid of her glass and scoffed. “Yes. I’m fairly certain you will.”

Riddle laughed at her and his hot breath curled along her cheeks. Her nose wrinkled, the pungent smell of alcohol and chocolate thick in her nostrils. It made her dizzy, made her cognizant of just how inappropriate their proximity appeared; of how it might look to anyone that had the misfortune of glancing up at the balcony.

“I find it curious that you’re still here despite these reservations.” Riddle’s lips curled into a devious smile. It was a warning, an ominous message all on its own. “If you’re so certain of my darker inclinations, a sensible woman such as yourself would have already fled.”

He wasn’t wrong. She had wanted to flee from the moment he’d approached, her stomach tense with fear. The right thing to do was to leave, to throw her drink at his face and run from the balcony before he did something nefarious. 

Yet, she did not. She remained perfectly in place, her fear hidden deep within the concave of her chest and mask of bravery. She had no way of knowing whether it worked, whether she looked as brave as she tried to be—

Then, his leg was between her thighs, parting them with little resistance from her part. A chill swept through her, and the hand clutching onto her glass dropped away, the sound of glass shattering drowned out by the rush of blood flooding her ears and the heat pressing between her legs.

Immediately, her hands pressed against his shoulders, fingers digging into his wool coat.

“What are you doing?” Hermione’s voice was higher than she’d intended, louder. It cut through the silence around them—the jeers and the laughter from below drowned by the panic coursing through her veins. Not even the sound of her heeled foot stepping on glass could tear her away from the fear that consumed her.

_ Don’t show fear. Don’t show fear. _

“If you don’t stop this now, I will punch you in the face, Riddle. Prime Minister, be damned.” Hermione warned, swallowing hard when he didn’t speak. Rather, he crept closer to her face, his grip on his wine falling away as well.

The glass shattered when it hit the ground, and she flinched, her eyes shifting to watch the red spread on the concrete floor before turning back to his face.  

“Then punch me, Hermione. I’m certain parliament will be interested in learning  _ why  _ I’d left the venue with a swollen cheek.” Riddle replied, and Hermione glared. It’d looked awful for her if she raised her hand against him. She was already under observation—her attire and movements scrutinized by the various blue bloods sitting in the House. 

Her reputation would be ruined if she harmed a single hair on his head, his word like gospel when he inevitably pointed the finger on her as the aggressor.  _ Just another angry woman _ , they would say, dismissing her from their minds.  _ If she can’t be reasonable with others, how does one expect her to make a difference? To hold onto her composure while under pressure?  _

She could just hear them now, news anchors and radio hosts smearing her character.

Clenching her jaw, Hermione glared up at him with as much hatred as she could muster. Her fear was quickly banished, anger replacing the noxious emotion to give her the courage she needed to survive this interaction.

“Clever.”

If she couldn’t hurt him, then she was left with no other choice but to do the unthinkable: surprise him.

It was risky. The opposite of what she had told herself she would do when in this man’s presence, but she would be damned if she let him get the last laugh. Even if it killed her, in the end, she would die with a smile knowing that she’d knocked him down the high pedestal he’d stolen for himself.

Before she lost her nerve, Hermione pressed forward, her hand lowering to wrap around his tie, and yank him closer, until her lips brushed against his. Her tongue licked at the seam of his mouth, her eyes open and heated when Riddle opened his mouth in surprise.

Hermione tasted his breath, wine and chocolate now a muddied flavor in the back of her tongue. She pulled tighter on the tie, her other hand pulling him in by the shoulder to slip her tongue into his mouth and taste. Her hand smoothed down his shoulder, fingers traveling down his clothed chest to stop right at the inseam of his trousers.

Hermione smiled into the kiss, taking his lack of movement as encouragement before catching his zipper between her fingers and slowly pulling it down. She ignored the sound it made, the grind of metal teeth on metal teeth nothing to the screams in the back of her head warning her that playing with fire would only get her burned.

She ignored those voices, fingers delving into the open fold of his trousers to meet bare flesh. The fact that he didn’t wear anything beneath his trousers should have stopped her, made her hesitate, but she didn’t. She pushed on, her fingers grazing the fine hairs beneath her hands, and grasped his hard cock.

It was slick and hot within her palm, and Hermione kissed Riddle deeper.

Riddle did not move. His fingers remained on either side of her on the railing, his knee pressed between her thighs. He simply allowed her to do as she pleased, to curl her tongue against his, to catch his bottom lip between her teeth and  _ bite  _ with as much ferocity as was permitted. Knowing, of course, that doing more—that daring to bite until he bled—would only raise as many questions as a punch to the face might. 

She squeezed his cock, and Riddle’s mouth parted in a silent gasp, his gaze fixed on hers despite the strangeness of this entire affair—of the fact that her eyes were on his, her thumb brushing the underside of his cock before digging into his slit.

Still, she did not stop. She kissed him like a knife pushed into flesh, angry and violent, her eyes watching the way his pupils—the brown of his irises so obvious now—blew wide with desire for  _ her _ . The way it ate away at what little color remained in his gaze, of how his cock twitched in her hands, slick and wet with his pre-cum.

It was heady, the way this powerful man let her do as she pleased. 

His shoulders twitched, and Hermione’s insides curled, the promise in the man’s eyes frightening as it was unbearably arousing. Her heart was racing, desire and the slow trickle of her own arousal between her legs undeniable.

_ Easy, Hermione. Easy. _

Then, his arms were sliding closer to her, the trembling of his shoulders and the unmistakable slide of his tongue against hers—

Hermione shoved him.

Satisfaction sang inside her veins when his eyes widened, his body propelling backward as if he hadn’t expected her to push him away so suddenly. His grip fell away from the railing, and Hermione took that as her cue to make her exit.

“But not clever enough.”

It had been the opening she’d been waiting for, her risky attempt at seducing him proving successful despite all the reservations she’d had since this idea’s conception.

His eyes were blazing, but Hermione did not stay to piece together what that expression might mean. Rather, she straightened her back and re-pinned the hairs that had fallen out of her tight coif. Her face was hot, her stomach still trembling with adrenaline, but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. She could explain her state easily to her colleagues, the excitement of the evening the perfect excuse.

“You’re not the only one that can play games, Riddle.” Hermione said, adjusting her dress and turning her attention back to Riddle’s rumpled state. His hair was no longer in perfect arrangement, his tie was loose on his neck, jacket rumpled, and the fly of his trousers was still wide open from when Hermione’s hand had toyed with his cock.

She shot him a vicious smile, all teeth, and turned away, committing to memory the fact that she had managed to sweep him off his feet.

“Hermione.” Hermione stopped in front of the door, hand gripping the doorknob. She twisted her head to look at him directly, a twinge of disappointment flooding through her pleasure when she found him fully recovered from her attentions. His tie had been fixed, his trousers, shirt, and coat, righted. 

It was as if their little dalliance had never happened.

_ Well _ , Hermione thought, amused,  _ that’s fine by me. _

She was fine with pretending if it meant he’d stay out of her way—warned away by her own touches. With how he had reacted to her, she’d been wrong in assuming he was more bite than bark. He had neither hurt nor threatened her.

The man that he had shown her in the darkened room those nights ago did not exist—merely a mask for Riddle to cow those around them into submission. 

She ignored the disappointment that revelation created, not wanting to ponder on that point any longer.

“Well? I don’t have all evening Riddle.” Hermione snapped with no sting, too pleased with these turn of events to be upset. 

Riddle was on her in seconds. 

One minute he was the furthest end of the balcony, and the next, his hand was wound around her neck, the other arm wrapped around her waist to prevent her from scratching out his eyes. She struggled against him, mouth parting to scream, but nothing came out when his fingers tightened on her throat, thumb digging into her windpipe.

A gurgle came out instead, the predatory gleam in Riddle’s eyes watching her with more intensity than had been present when her lips were pressed against his and her hand on his cock. 

He leaned in, nose skirting along her cheek, an icy point that cut through the terror in her insides. She was gasping for air, a weak sound leaving her when his grip tightened, and her vision began to swim. 

Dark spots danced along her vision, muddying the clear image of Riddle’s face. It was terrifying, the loss of power after she’d taken it for herself. He could break her neck if he wanted, drain what little life remained without breaking a sweat.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall even as her head felt as though it were going to implode from the lack of air. 

“Oh, Hermione,  _ Hermione _ .” Riddle’s voice was soft, soothing. The tone was more terrifying than any shout Hermione had ever heard in her life. This was the voice of a bloody  _ madman _ . “That was quite unexpected. I did not know you had it in you.”

A weak sound was all she could muster, her struggling coming to a slow stop when Riddle’s face began to flicker in and out of existence. She was swimming in the breathlessness, Riddle’s touch falling away until she was weightless in the darkened edges overcoming her vision.

“It’s curious how you manage to unmask me. This is the second time you’ve forced my hand without my conscious decision…” Riddle murmured, his lips against her cheek like butterfly wings on her skin. “I should kill you.”

Hermione shook, unable to do much else when his grip tightened, her terror like acid eating her from the inside out. 

_ No _ , she wanted to say.  _ No, please _ , she wanted to beg. She didn’t want to die. Not yet, there was so much for her to do. 

“I should slowly drain the life from your eyes. It would be the sensible thing to do after what you’ve done. I cannot allow you to roam free when you threaten everything I have worked so carefully for.”

She wanted to scream that she wasn’t. She didn’t know anything. How could she be a threat when it was  _ he  _ who couldn’t control himself. He was the one that had a thin grip on his bloody sanity. 

She wanted to shout the words until they bled into his brain, until he let her go and allowed her to  _ breathe _ . But he was relentless, his voice coming in and out of hearing as she tried to stay away through this nightmare.

Riddle released her.

Hermione fell to her knees, her hose and knees scraping against the harsh concrete. They ached, the pain enough to make a pained whimper crawl from her aching throat. She coughed and choked on her spit, her hand clutching her throat immediately. 

Her eyes were stinging, her mind screaming and screaming for her to run. He’d just attacked her in the middle of the party. Before, he had only promised her danger—teased at the possibility of it. 

Hermione was more in over her head than she’d initially guessed. This man wasn’t  _ normal _ . 

“But no, I will not kill you.” Riddle said from above her, and Hermione slowly raised her head, fear and nausea gripping her throat. Her breaths were coming too fast for her to keep track of, nearly making her gag. “This is neither the time or the place. You’re an educated woman.”

Riddle crouched, and Hermione tried not to flinch, fingers clenching into fists when he outstretched his hand to her as if to help her up. Hermione didn’t take it, mistrustful.  

He was the literal  _ devil _ .

“You’re the most interesting thing that’s passed through Parliament since James Potter’s son.” 

Hermione froze, mouth hanging open because Riddle  _ couldn’t _ —

_ Riddle knew Harry _ , Hermione thought, seizing on the thought despite the predator crouched in front of her.  _ Riddle knew Harry. _

“Ho-how do y-you know Harry?” Hermione asked, a furious cough wracking through her. Her voice was like sandpaper—gravely and weak to her own ears. She shouldn’t be talking at all, letting her throat rest instead, but she couldn’t. She needed to know. 

A devious smile spread over Riddle’s lips, and then his hand was atop hers on the ground. It dwarfed hers. She did not dare try to snatch it back lest he change his mind and actually kill her while in the middle of the party.

It was an absurd fear since, in hindsight, killing her here would be terrible for him. But still, nothing could stop the noxious panic pressed into her lungs. 

“You should ask him.” Riddle teased, his fingers squeezing hers before pulling her up. “You might find it...illuminating.”

Her legs shook, threatening to spill over like a newborn dear. He let her go as soon as her balance stabilized and opened the balcony door, allowing the cool breeze emanating from the hotel to brush along her cheeks.

He stepped toward the doorway, blocking her view of the well-decorated hallway.

Then, he stopped.

Hermione tried not to curl into herself when he tilted his head to regard her one last time, his dark eyes taking her in from the top of her head and down to her feet, a slow perusal that bordered on invasive. 

“Do keep in mind what I said.” Tom Riddle said, voice light despite the intense gleam in the man’s eyes. “It would be a shame if our youngest elected MP is found dead in her home just shortly after taking office.”

She didn’t hide her fear this time. She couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to. 

“Consider this my last act of kindness, if you will. A gift for the lovely evening beneath the stars.” 

He stepped closer, and Hermione took a step back, her feet wobbling.

“Have a good evening, Hermione. Please be sure to extend my greetings to Harry if you see him.”

With that, Riddle turned to the open doorway and disappeared into the hall. The door clicked shut behind him, and Hermione was finally alone.

Her racing emotions and the brilliant stars gleaming above her head her were her only companions as she tried to make sense of what had happened.

* * *

Prime Minister Riddle, Hermione quickly learned, was no mere politician.

She should have known that from the moment he’d threatened her the first time, from the second his hands had made their way into her skirt and nearly undid her in front of an audience.

It should have been her first clue—the first hint to the true lengths Riddle would go through to maintain his high position in the government.

Harry had, at first, not wanted to talk. He never did. Her friend was secretive about his work—his suspicions and hunches often getting him into trouble with his superiors when the targets of his investigations turned out to be high-ranking government officials. 

It was the dark side to working for the police. An aspect, Hermione had realized quickly in her time in Oxford. Corruption ran rampant. Men and women in the force turned a blind eye to injustice if it meant that they’d blow through their ranks and retain some form of immunity for their avarice.

It was fortunate that Harry had inevitably caved. She would have had to take things into her own hands, otherwise. Asking Riddle was out of the question after he’d nearly killed her, and none of the politicians in parliament knew much about Riddle in the first place. 

She suspected the older generations did, and that was why he had gained wide support from those old men, but still. She couldn’t ask; not with Riddle’s eyes on her every move. Death had nearly come for her once and she refused to brush against it a second time, even if she saw death at every congressional meeting.

Riddle was no politician. It would be too generous of a statement to call him that. 

He was big in the underworld. A dark character that hid behind the name “Lord Voldemort” to commit unspeakable atrocities against men, women, and children alike. 

He was a murderer and a criminal. Slaying anyone that thought to speak up, silencing those that knew too much, and ruining the reputations of those that could put a wrench in his plans. 

Still, even after speaking to Harry, even after asking him for everything on Riddle that he had, there was still the question of  _ why _ . She didn’t know why he had told her to speak to Harry. It was counterintuitive. 

Dangerous and stupid, in fact, to point her toward a trusted source. 

Hermione didn’t want to admit that this knowledge unsettled her. It scared her to know that she was acting within Riddle’s carefully laid plans. That, somehow, rather than working in the shadows to unmake him, she was only entertaining him.

Still, she couldn’t afford to let this unease ruin her efforts. Letting it control her would only make her clumsy and hasty. This fear of the unknown was a distraction, if anything else. 

She couldn’t afford to be weak when Prime Minister Riddle was not only a threat to her, but possibly a danger to the entire country if her hunch was correct.

His revelations would be his undoing. She’d make him regret him revealing his true self to her. It was easy to fight a monster one knew to expect rather than the one hidden behind a mask of kindness. 

The question still remained, however,  _ why  _ he would tell her. Why he would point her in Harry’s direction if he didn’t already have something under his sleeve.

With that thought, Hermione leaned further into her chair, the tip of her fingers smoothing over the rim of her wine glass, mind pensive. 

Yes, it was certainly quite the mess. She’d have to tread lightly around him. She was under his radar now—a  _ liability _ . His eyes would be entirely on her.

Something warm pressed against her shoulder, and it took everything within her not to flinch away, the high collar of her evening gown masking the bruises still peppered along her neck. It had been a week since their meeting in the balcony, and still, the bruises were wound around her neck.

She tilted her head, stiff and uncomfortable when she caught sight of a male hand with a ring. A dark stone sat at the ring’s center, and it was only when everyone around them ceased speaking, the gossip and political discussions of the table finally coming to an end, that she looked up.

Riddle was at her side, his fingers soft along her bare shoulder. Heat spread through her shoulder, unwanted and discomfiting. As if it were perfectly alright that he was touching her with everyone present in the room.

“A toast.” Riddle said, voice loud and magnetic even when the sound of it made her stomach flip. “To new beginnings. I look forward to all the hard work we shall accomplish this term.”

Hermione forced a smile on her lips, her hand reaching for her champagne flute even when the idea of toasting to this man sat terribly in her stomach. Between the palpable excitement in the gazes of her colleagues and the hand pressed against her shoulder, she wondered if taking a sip would be a mistake. 

Riddle remained at her side as everyone touched their glasses to one another’s, his presence like a heavy cloak draped about her shoulders. It wasn’t until everyone had finished, her glass dangling loosely between her fingers, that he removed his hand from her shoulder and everyone was allowed to take a sip of the bubbling liquid.

It rolled down her tongue, slow and easy. It burned in her throat, the familiarity of it enough for her to close her eyes and ignore the reality of who stood beside her. 

Then, a finger was traveling up the back of her neck. The heat of his hands were enough to elicit a wave of anxiousness and anticipation from her veins. It was a reminder of what he’d done to her that evening in the balcony—how he’d watched her breaths come to a halt, her eyes wet with tears as she nearly passed out in his grip.

Hermione swallowed the liquid down, forcing herself to drink it to the last drop to ignore the feeling of his hands against her clothed neck. 

“Beautiful gown.” Riddle said, and Hermione’s grip tightened on the glass before she forced it back down to the table. It clicked against the wood, but Hermione was no longer thinking of the onlookers at the table, their eyes focused entirely on Riddle...and her.

“Thank you, Prime Minister.” Hermione tilted her to look up at him, eyes traveling from the fine press of his trousers to the coat wrapped around his shoulders. He was impeccably dressed as always, hair tamed and styled to perfection. “You’re looking sharp yourself.”

His eyes were hot and heavy as they gazed at her—a knowing gleam in his gaze that made her throat ache with the memory of his hands against her. She doubted she could ever forget it—his fingers were perfectly etched on her neck, even with some of the bruises long gone. 

“A shame it hides your lovely neck.” Riddle said, low enough that only she could hear even with the people sitting near her side of the table. It was why he had sat her at the end, she assumed. Far enough that no one would interrupt their silent conversations, but close enough that everyone in the room would be able to note her every movement.

Hermione forced out a laugh and shook her head. 

Riddle thought he’d won. Certain that she would break and allow him to do as he pleased.

She would not, but for now, she’d pretend that she would.

“For you or for me?” Hermione asked, hands falling away from the table’s surface to press against her thighs, fingers clutching onto the fabric of her skirt for dear life. No matter how prepared she was, she never could quite curtail the fear he elicited in her.

He was a monster, and she was the only one that saw him for who he was. The only one among her acquaintances that had nearly died with his hands wrapped around her neck. That she knew of, at least, there was no telling who else had had a brush against death.

“Would you like the honest answer?” Riddle replied, fingers still tracing unmentionable shapes along the back of her neck. “You should know the answer to this already.”

She did. Of course, she did. 

“It’s going to be a lie regardless of what I say. So do as you please.” Hermione turned away from him.

“Lies? I have only ever been honest with you.”

_ Lies.  _ Hermione wanted to say the words. They were heavy on her tongue—real as the fingers curling around the back of her neck now, a warning pressure squeezing around the sides. It was amazing what this man could do without ever being seen—it made her wonder just how desperate these people were to turn a blind eye.

“And that is what frightens you, no? That it is you, and only you, that knows just what I am.” Riddle murmured the words, and Hermione slowed her breaths to keep her nerves from spilling up from her stomach and down her esophagus. “That with just a snap of my fingers I can make them all dance until they no longer can, until their feet ache and they drop dead from the exertion.”

“What do you think that will accomplish, Riddle? What do you think  _ telling  _ me all this will do?” 

His ego had to be beyond that of a normal man if he was spilling his secrets so easily.

His hand squeezed her neck, and Hermione swore her heart stopped. Her skin prickled, her arms breaking out into gooseflesh at the phantom memory of his hand around her neck as he strangled her.

She could see it now, imagine just what her face might have looked like. Flushed, mouth wide open with her need for air. It was blasphemous, how one might confuse her meeting with death with that of a lover’s reunion. 

A shudder tore through her, and Hermione’s fingers dug into her thighs with enough force to bruise skin. It ached in a way that grounded her, that stifled the panic that wanted to bubble over and consume her.

“You’ll see.”

His fingers fell away, and Hermione slumped into her seat. Her arms were shaking, her breaths coming fast. It was as if she’d run a mile rather than had had an encounter with Riddle.

Swallowing, Hermione watched Riddle return to his end of the table, directly on the opposite side of her seat. He lifted his glass, his eyes solely on her, before he brought the glass to his lips and drank it to the last drop. A droplet of clear liquid spilled from the corner of his lips, and Hermione watched it, unable to tear her attention away.

There was a promise deep in his gaze that only she could read, that only she could  _ see _ , had tasted on the man’s lips before she’d thrown him off the week before. She took note of it, memorizing the slant of his eyes, the twist of his lips, before she rose and took her leave.

She didn’t stop nor turn when the festivities were interrupted by the sound of glass shattering and sharp, piercing screams. She walked on, her steps careful even when her shoulders still trembled from her brief interaction with Riddle.

_ You’ll see _ , she thought, a deep sense of irony carrying her through the hotel.  _ Yes, she definitely did. _


End file.
